A poem for the wicked and the wretched
When
Life
Gets
Hard
I dream
of the gods
of slaughter
I rejoice
Every time
I see a woman
Wet with a man’s blood
I thank the heavens
When she brandishes
His severed head
Like the gorgeous, gristly prize
It is
I ask them
to make me over
Mothers
Give me the power
I beg of you
I beseech you without cease
I want to stretch my hands
And feel beautiful
Deadly
Claws
I want to run my tongue
Over sweet
Sharp
Fangs
Capped in the ore
Of the earth
If gods are energy
Ancient and unchanging
Some days I feel
Sehkmet
I want to take my revenge
On the whole
Of man
Let my Father
Lower his hand
Let my mother
Lend me her sword
I will cleanse the whole world
I will make the rain come down
Atira C. © 2023. All rights reserved.
